Whispers from the Dead

Who is trying to reach Sarah? And why?

Enough early-evening light streamed through the window next to the front door to yellow the walls, spreading its glow across a spindly antique table I’d never seen before. On it, lying on its side, was an unfamiliar crystal vase of early spring sweet peas, spilled and dripping onto white marblelike tiles.

The sound of crying stopped. Then, out of the silence came a whisper so heartbreaking, so desperate, that it tugged me forward:
“¡Ayúdame! ¡Ayúdame!”

My heart was pounding so loudly that I could hear it in my ears as I moved closer to the railing, bent over, and looked straight down.

Directly below me, under the brown-red splattered walls, lay a pool of blood.

B
ecause the things that happened to me were so strange, I know that some people will find them hard to believe. It’s like when your mind slides from sleeping to waking and something takes place that’s so bizarre, you tell yourself, “I have to be dreaming. This couldn’t be real.” Or when you jolt awake from a nightmare, and there are still unfamiliar shapes that move through your dark room, and you stare at them with wide-open eyes, knowing they can’t exist and you must be awake.

There will be more questions, and I’ll have to repeat the answers over and over—even to myself—so I’ve bought a thick, yellow, lined tablet, and I’m going to
write down everything that took place, beginning with the day I died.

My name is Sarah Darnell. I’m sixteen—almost seventeen—and I’m tall, with long, curly, dark hair. I’m a little bit underweight, but—

No. That’s not the way to start this story, with facts like those on a driver’s license. I’ll have to start at the beginning, when we lived in Springdale, Missouri, before we moved to Houston, and write about the drowning. I hate to write about it because I know the cold and the terror will crawl back into my mind and I won’t be able to hide from it, but I haven’t got a choice. You’ll have to know what happened.

It was a Saturday morning, and Marcie, my best friend, had telephoned early, waking me. “Andy just called,” she said. “Everybody’s going to the lake. Come on. Get out of bed and grab your bathing suit. We’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

Summer had come early this year, spring flowers barely budding before wilting in the heat, but I pulled the sheet up over my head and shivered. “The water will still be cold,” I complained.

Marcie laughed, and I could picture her wide, lop-sided smile. “Not that cold,” she said. “Come on. Andy and Barbie are bringing some stuff so we can cook hot dogs, and Kent’s mom just made a batch of cookies. It’s going to be fun.”

It would be. All of us had been good friends since we
were little kids, and I didn’t want to be left out of the party. “I’ll be ready,” I said.

I was right about the water, so cold that it made us gasp for breath and yell and thrash around until we got used to it and raced each other out to the old float. Andy got there first. He grabbed my hand and helped me scramble up the side of the float. “You’re looking good,” he said, not letting go of my hand. “I like that bathing suit.”

I grinned at him. I’d had a big crush on Andy a few years ago and tagged after him whenever I could—a lovesick seventh-grader impressed by a boy two years older, taller than I was, and strong enough to smash soft-drink cans in one hand.

And now? Well, the possibility of falling a little bit in love again with Andy was an attractive thought. I could feel my cheeks grow warm, and to cover my blush I pulled my hand away and dived deep, enjoying the pale green water as it slid around my body. A school of minnows silver-streaked across my path, leaving speckles of reflected light in their wake. I was alone in a beautiful, silent world that belonged only to me, until my lungs ached for air and I flip-flopped, shooting up toward the surface of the water.

I heard Kent yell, “Cannonball!” seconds before he slammed against me, driving me downward through the icy water of the lake into a tangle of vines that twisted around my ankles. My head was a fireball of pain, and my lungs burned with such agony, I thought they’d explode as I struggled desperately to get free.

Suddenly I became aware that the pain had gone,
and I was set apart—like a mildly curious bystander—watching the entire scene. Some of the kids dived from the float, managing together to tear through the vines and release my body. They laid it facedown on the float, and Andy—who had worked most summers as a lifeguard—grabbed my waist, hoisting me to let the water run from my open mouth. He quickly rolled me onto my back, placed his mouth over mine, and began to puff bursts of air into my lungs.

I moved closer, not wanting to look at this body I had left behind, yet at the same time not wanting to leave. I knew I had died, and it puzzled me that the others didn’t know this too. I laid a hand on Andy’s shoulder, even though I knew he couldn’t feel it. “Poor Andy. Don’t try. It’s too late,” I said, but of course he couldn’t hear me.

Marcie wailed and struck at Kent with both fists. “You idiot! You stupid jerk!”

Kent kept sobbing. “I didn’t know Sarah was under me when I jumped. Honest, I didn’t know.” I wanted to tell him that I didn’t blame him, but I began to dream of lights and voices, and when my dream ended, I was in a hospital bed, amazed to see my mother and father bending over me.

“I’m still here,” I whispered, bewildered by the direction my dream had taken. My parents hugged me and began to cry.

Later I held Andy tightly and said, “You saved my life,” but I wasn’t telling him the truth. Of course I was alive. I was here, with my family and my friends, as I’d always been; but at the same time I felt as though a part of me still inhabited another shadowy world.

I knew this because of the spirit.

I don’t know exactly what to call it: a spirit, a presence, a wraith. It was invisible, it was soundless, yet I knew it was there, shadowing me in a quiet, almost gentle way.

At first I was frightened. Did you ever have the feeling that you were being watched and turn around quickly and find someone staring at you? Well, I’d turn, but no one would be there; yet I’d still have the creepy feeling that someone was present, someone whose eyes were still upon me.